i've noticed that, upon ushering words from the depth
of nothing, or as an interlude in Knausgaard's day-to-day
musing in vol. 6 after inviting Geir over:
this "i" or that "i" or for that matter "my" i...
however you want to frame it...
    i noticed that if i allow myself an evening of not writing...
esp. on an electric screen for someone else to see...
if for example i lay down to go to sleep...
not exactly asleep: dart out of bed and scribble something
on a piece of paper for only me to see...
i will still dream...
but if i sit down and face the electric screen:
pixels like the eyes of a fly... for someone else to see?
i don't dream...
   otherwise... having scribbled down the following
on a piece of paper:

   exploring Heidegger's dasein in another language...
my native, which i will translate into English,
basically prepositional coordination of(f) being
off not necessarily implying non-being -
perhaps merely: being-in-itself or rather the other...

tu-być : be-here
              to-bycie : this-being
ten-byt :                      ditto
although: nuance... there is a distinction...

i also scribbled down something i heard a long
time ago about how Russia, India and China are
re-orientating themselves with the slacking of the western
influence on: whatever it was that the west had
for the past three decades beside
proxy wars, collateral damages and "culture"...

i heard the term: post-ethnic-nationalism
post-ethno-state post-nation-state...
ergo: multiculturalism... which, oddly enough:
i can't come to grips with trying if not trying to
pretend to be a native of these isles -
perhaps it might be a shock for someone outside
of London - but in London it's almost
second nature to... be surrounded by people
from all around the world...
needless to say: the natives are not so disgruntled
once they're sitting all pretty-cherry on top
of some hierarchy: esp. in the journalistic
opinion sections of the Saturday / Sunday magazine...
then it's an open bonanza against
the "lower class racists" and what not...
i can't be an anti-racist: after all...
                                     anti-racists once produced
a schematic for us to learn from in primary school...
which shower the size of brains of...
a white person, a black person and a racist...
and some other brains...
the racist's brain was under-developed:
smaller...                                      ­ really?!

anyway... so Russia, India and China have opted for
what has come to be known as the:
civilization-state...
                                     given the ongoing zeitgeist
******* blowing up in the Anglophone world from
H'america... the culture-war(?!) -
i would bet fairly and say that pretty much all
former nation-states of western Europe
and beyond are currently in a state of morphing
into: buzz buzzword: being - culture-states...

but whereas a civilization-state seems an abrupt
optimal to counter and disagreement with regards
to continuity: civilisations don't merely come and go...
whereas cultures do...
   culture is somehow a totality of the little things
in life... fashion, the arts, politics, faux pas innuendos,
trends, diet...
that's culture and some...
but civilisation? to me that's like saying...
the foundation of Rome was the creation
of the aqueducts...
                  civilisation to me is like saying:
the British Empire and the steam-engine...
civilisation to me, London, exclusively is... the tube...
the underground network...

seriously... i don't need to go to a West End Play
i don't need to go and see Ed Sheeran play
to a sold out Wembley stadium of 100,000+ people
(although, i did, even though i did because
i worked a shift there doing security,
so, technically i didn't, but did)
            i don't need culture... as such...

all i need to do is first, do a shift at Craven Cottage...
hope that the Elizabeth Line won't be working
travel on the Central Line from Newbury Park all
the way to Holborn... and then blah blah...
instead of trying to look at the tired faces opposite
me admire the map of the Central Line
(it's a toss-up between the Central Line map,
or the District, Northern or Piccadilly)
and then, on some sunny day... get my bicycle
out... and bicycle for most of the route... notably...
skewing... merging at Fairlop working my way
through Barkingside, coming to Gants Hill
then less of the tube route (mind you...
between Leyton and Stratford it's pretty
much over-ground) -
   and then from Stratford - through to Mile End...
from Mile End via Whitechapel... to Aldgate...
from Aldgate to St. Paul's... Chancery Lane...
Holborn... rat beneath the ground:
like a rat needs a bicycle -
   well this rat is no hamster: hence the bicycle
and not a hamster-wheel...

what culture? movies?! i tried watching something
relevant to the 1980s today... ***** Dancing...
great soundtrack but... cringe!
that's even before Malcolm X and how inter-racial
inter-****** relations had to be the new norm:
i mean: ******* fair play...
    building the new Brazil -
    but i still think there's an under-representation
(and isn't everyone supposed to get a fair share
of representation) of white boy Romanian girl
(Roma, gypsy) or white boy Turkish girl...
   or white boy half-white half-Indian girl...

i know i will not dream tonight because someone
will see this...
my little itchy thoughts, my freed from the reins
"i" that doesn't really have these words clogging
up its mind - only until the itching of the fingers starts
and i have a blessed day...
like today...

why is it that a Saturday evening can feel like
a Sunday evening?
oh, right... i made steak for dinner tonight...
potato wedges (skins on, first boiled until
the the water started boiling, turned off, soaking
for 5 min, drained, olive oil, cajun pepper sprinkle,
into the oven)
    and some baked vegetables:
leeks, carrots, parsley root, red onions,
celeriac, swede... balsamic vinegar,
    sambal, cumin, coriander, salt, pepper,
sugar (i stopped using honey,
   it sticks to the baking tray plus the vegetables
lose their crunch, and vegetables need their crunch)...
2 steaks (456g total) shared between three people...
seasoned with sea salt and grain black pepper
(i prefer pepper grains than pepper powder,
i.e. pockets of explosion of that spice)
    3 min each side... a perfect medium-rare blush...

however the Indians might sell their spices...
chillies etc. there's still something wholesome
when it comes to eating certain types of food...
given that... i wouldn't be eating beef in India:
i wouldn't be seasoning beef with chillies!
that's why pepper is important...
that's why horseradish is important...
i let most of the Indians slip up: oooh! the Europeans
didn't have any spices...
apart from thyme, rosemary, sage, lavender,
mint... pepper, horseradish, i#m sure we
were also familiar with cumin seeds -
as well as that anise-seed that' not the star
(i forgot the name of it, it looks like
a cumin seed, but fatter, and split down
the middle - green) oh and of course:
plenty of salt...
what's all the spices in the world in the culinary world...
IF, YOU, AIN'T, GOT - SALT?!
   (if you don't have... i know i know...)

it's rather bewildering talking to certain Asians...
although, saying that...
most of Eastern Europe had plenty of interaction
with Asians, namely the Mongols
and the Turks - which the western Europeans
sort of... "forgot"... after Darwinism they
skipped over Asia and went straight back
to Africa... personally? i feel more akin to Asians
(esp. the oriental folk) than i do with anyone
from Africa... however Christianity was born...
after all: what's the definition of a white man?
Caucasian? and where's the Caucus?
Asia... Europe was always going to be
a funnel - a bottle-neck continent -
a port... a departing point...
       perhaps we shouldn't be so clingy to it...
unless of course:
   oh the parody of Jesus never came out of
Europe: "we" had to wait for it coming from
North America, but by then it was no longer
a parody of Jesus but a parody of North American
Christianity... a North American parody of Jesus
is... oddly enough... a European parody
of North American Christianity: via Jesus...

which brings me to another thing... only upon
doing a shift at Craven Cottage did i first hear
the parakeets... never before...
     i'm not going to bloat my ego this much but...
since then i've seen an article on Wikipedia that
i never saw before, the article just appeared out of
nowhere: feral parakeets of England...
subsequently... only a day ago:
you're only here for the parrots, fans chant
as birds swarm Leyton Orient pitch (Evening Standard
4 hours ago)
and bare conker trees overrun by bright green
parakeets make them seem vibrant despite leafless
branches (Daily Mail, 3 days ago, somewhere
in south London)...

today i was given the chance to walk back into my old
haunt... as much as i love cycling...
it's sometimes refreshing to walk...
the slowing of pace, the horizon almost intact...
more so... if walking into a forest...
Bower Wood... i know it is a curated wood...
it's not as feral as the pine woods of Eastern Europe...
but: if life gives you X... you make XY...
x = lemons, y = juice ergo xy = lemon juice...

i'm pretty sure i was familiar with this wood...
i was out hunting for souvenirs for my mother to dress
the table / fake deer antennas for candles to sit in...
holy, some other greenery with black berries...
i was hunting for ferns, almost near impossible
given this time of year... found some! bright blush
of childish envy... oh... and birches...
some oak barks fallen off... just me alone in the forest...
i was so thankful by myself...
but usually i heard crows, magpies and woodland
pigeons... but now?! parakeets?!
here?! now?! parrots in winter in these parts?!

i swear the world is standing-up-side-down...
it's hard not to miss an under-current of a serious
pagan revival weaving and slithering its way through
Europe: if only you care to listen...
i switched off from whatever is available in culture
these days... i know that what i'm listening to
will not gain popular traction...
i can walk into the forest and... there's the forest...
i go back home... cook dinner...
go into my bedroom, open a bottle of cider
thinking: no champagne will beat this...
put on a record akin to...
Heilung's TENET and... hey presto!

                       i was in company of a good friend:
someone already dead who...
i don't know how someone can lose themselves
in the forest... pareidolia...
   you can sometimes see paths already trodden...
unseen but somehow: you can see a "ghost"
of a foot here and there...
    you know: you just KNOW where a human foot
prior to yours once treaded...
there are patterns... better sticking with pareidolia than
the iconoclasm of celebrity...
i always thought that was better...
i like to think i'm in the company of strange
creatures: phantoms of my mind...
but hardly! how can these be phantoms of my mind?!
i didn't spontaneously conjure a face in a tree
when the ******* tree is older than me!
the tree was here before me!
what?! some sin?! some psychological sin
of non-conformity?! i don't adhere to star-gazing
in the filth of commodities and entertainment?!

i know why this feels like a Sunday evening even
though it's a Saturday night...
i was planning on going to the brothel tonight...
but... oh hey mother, hello father...
i'm going out... where? you don't have any friends...
blah blah... yeah... well... i'm kind of happy
because of that: no social-constraints of expectations...
as the conversation usually ran with the last
remaining friend i had from high-school...
- so, what have you been up to?
- nothing...
     and he knew that i was scribbling like mad...
what's there to talk about when it comes to writing?!
last time i heard: you read what is written...
you don't talk about it...
hopefully the reading of something written goes
back into thinking and is not spoken of:
since the conventionality of everyday
formality of social-speech crushes anything delicate
that is born from i-ought-not-but-regardless-i-must!
it's a compulsion!

i went to the shop about 3 hours ago to buy an extra
bottle of cider because i knew: having read a little more than
usual i had to keep the Libra of conscience in place,
"conscience": never write more than you read...
and never read less than you write - so so...
          wow... FORK in the "ROAD"...
                        this is me replaying the opening of the song
TENET - the sound of the horn...
well... i didn't have a horn in the forest...
but i had my pagan statue... a dead white tree...
i left this little stick next to it... i used to walk this wood
more times than i can remember...
sometimes i walked into it bare-chested...
blind from the darkness, but somehow illuminated
by the moon... sat on a stump of wood...
silence... then a breaking of a branch...
not the sort of breaking of a branch still attached
to a tree... something stepped on it...
i wasn't alone... i froze but then ushered in my voice
to compliment a shared bewildered amazement:
that is not a foot of a man stepping on a branch...

in the same wood i saw my first GARMR...
would i really have to go with the flow
of a Christopher J. MacCandless?!
                                       if hell is going to send its hounds
out to meet me, it doesn't matter where that might
be... i don't need to visit the northern most parts
of Norway to find what i'm seeking...
and what i'm seeking i found: since i'm dragging what
needed to be found around...
it's not surprising that at Bower Wood i was
alleviating a traffic problem when
two does and about 5 fawns were causing havoc...
"havoc" in the night implies 3 cars pulling over...
me coming down from the hill running up to
the village of Havering-atte-Bower spotting one...
not caring if there was a stag nearby running
with the fawn which subsequently ensured
the two does and the rest of the fawns
started to gallop and disappeared into the Wood...

i wish i could make this stuff up...
but then again: i'm not jealous of people
who have seen the Galapagos Islands or the Maldives
or... ah... just recently...
i took that rat-above-rat-below trip on my bicycle
into central London... i said to myself:
circle round St. Paul's cathedral... nope...
not good enough... around the Old Bailey then...
o.k. - and i "prayed": please! not another flat tire!
hey presto! on my way back... a flat tire at Aldgate!
great! well... i walked this distance before...
i can walk it again... walking back...
passed the East London Mosque and then...
Allahu Akbar! a bicycle repair shop!

walked up - leaned the bicycle against the wall,
the Chinese guy said: just 10 minutes
(while he was fixing this Deliveroo rider's
electric bicycle) - no problem -
i took some times to each some gelatin sweets
and drink some water, looking at people,
i felt like i was in some exclusive club,
only cyclists allowed - it felt like a very urban
sensation that most punks must have felt,
or goths, standing out...
i paid too much compliments to those guys
in Cycle King bicycle shop in Chadwell Heath...
i knew the front tire was worn down,
but i thought: get the professional's opinion...
they would be more than willing to change
the inner-tube for the Nth time before telling me:
oh... you need to change the actual tyre...
how many times did i change the inner tube?
**** knows! milking it... ******* were milking it!
but this Chinese guy said outright plainly...
it's ****... i'll change it for you...
inner tube, tyre and labour... £55...
done!
               he changed it to a tyre that...
well... let's face it... 2nd gear front
and 4th, 5th 6th and 7th gears in the back...
i was whizzing past home... he said:
less width... more grip... for the grit...
   but at least he was ******* honest...
that's what i mean about a European's relationship
with the Asians... i'm honest, they're honest...
they're not some SCAM MERCHANT KNIGS
of NIGERIA: CNUT-MBAPPE typos...

oh... and it's not like anyone didn't notice
that Indian girls think they're the bomb?!
oh yeah... oh no, not the Muslim girls... those girls
are whipped into always staring down...
like white girls are whipped into peering into
their smart-phone screens and envisioning:
anything outside of inter-racial relationships is:
pederasty (loose term)... whatever it might me...
bulimic antics: not done properly, mind you...
not in the Roman style of training the oesophagus
to just spew on a whim: i.e. i ate too much...
apologies... i need to... ugh! ugh! ugh!
                      get ready the trampoline!
we're going to launch half-digested fish-heads!

now i'm happy... my Trek Merlin 5 is compatible...
fun... looking at that *** trying to chase me down
working my way down toward the Old Bailey...
Asian ceramic raven haired
no helmet... and never, never... ride a bicycle
in an urban environment minding
the sticker on the inside of a large vehicle:
BLIND SPOT... well... d'uh... so use the large
vehicle like a battering ram against all the gnats
of smaller vehicles... ride on the outside of the large
vehicle... always on the outside...
what are you, cyclist... a Hebrew forced by
the **** brown-shirts to walk in the gutter rather
than on the pavement?! what am i?
just because i'm a cyclist i'm no less a hazard
to a motorcyclist?! momentum, self-generated!
i like my legs... let me know when you're dealing
wheelies and whizzes on a ******* wheelchair...
until i have my legs... i'll be skimming through
traffic... Norman Davis might have called
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth God's Playground...
i think i'll call London my playground...
there's plenty to play with around here...

                 but for once i listened to my ego...
for some reason i didn't require a depth of the
Freudian secular trinity of the addition of superego
and id... i was just about to think about going to the brothel
but then my ego said: you're not feeling it...
and i wasn't... i still had to clean the kitchen up,
take the garbage out... i was oiling myself up...
"oiling": checking if i still had a 30 year old's hard-on
i stopped using the fake diet of ******* of
actors: disposable, unattainable...
i switched to: ROMANIAN AMATEUR ****...
well... it's what i'm going to get...
but i checked my hard-on too many times today...
checked, i.e. checked without climaxing...
checked about 4 times... the 5th time i checked
i was thinking about going to the brothel...
but then my ego (not my ego) checked me...
you're not going anywhere:

THE FICKLE MIND AND THE FIRM TRUTH
OF THE BODY...
the mind lies more times than the body cares to admit...
until, of course... the reality of body steps in
and the mind has to retreat... just as happened with
my excess drinking... i went to buy that extra bottle
of cider and waiting in the queue while a mother
with three daughters "****'s sake" the mother retorted
while the girls were undecided what else
to add to the basked i looked at the shelves
with all the spirits... no! no! no more whiskey!
no more *****! no more!
i checked my supposed "impotence" too many times
today... "impotence": more like being
insulted by the madam: beached-whale...
she just flicked it when it went limp because
i found her physically abhorrent...
flicked it... like it was a worm...
like she was 6 years old and i was 5 years old
and she was still playing with Barbie dolls
and unlike she was...
because she knew what a key was and what a keyhole
was... but she had no idea what
physical attraction was...

                        reciprocated...

well ****... it's working... guess it's not working with you...
a bit like the horse that Christopher Reeve rode
when it dropped him and recalculated Superman:
without a spine...
plus i had no excuse to leave the house...
i had plenty of excuses to read some more of Knausgaard
and write this...
tomorrow i'll have the excuse of "working late"...
going to a brothel is not like saying:
oh yeah... i'm going on a date with a girl
we're going to the cinema blah blah...
       no... dearest ******* Madam...
she's the one that chased away both Mona and Khadra...
what the **** happened?!

what am i? a Duracell bunny?! there's an ON and OFF
switch with regards to my phallus?!
if that's the case... what's the dynamic of ****?!
is ****... no... it can't be... **** is a man *******
a turned-off woman? i once had an experience
of a woman who... let's put it mildly:
her **** was as dry as the adequate metaphor
of sensation one might regret to feel from rubbing one's
hands on sandpaper!
hands... finger tips... rough skin...
ergo the ability to play guitar or rock climb...
we're talking tender skin...
so... technically: hardly a pleasure for a ****** to feel
pleasure from an unaroused ****!
ergo?! that was an aroused **** and it's all psychological:
not physical... the shame of giving it so freely
and unwillingly... whereas playing games with
those one might want to give it up to...
i can hardly **** with a LIMPY -
   but i certainly wouldn't want to **** a timber-mill worth
of toothpicks, match-sticks and left-overs...
**** is psychological it would seem...
                the shame of it... all those labyrinths of playing
games suddenly disappearing from the case of
"spontaneity"...
   you should ask her: South African... Sancha...
worked in a private school... teaching boys Mathematics...
maybe she was a *******... by now who knows?!
i do know that i wasn't terrible aroused by her
the first time we tried...
i got a limp... like i got a limp with Ilona:
a forewarning... but she was adamant and whispered
into my ear: you will not deny me...
second time i was in her teacher accommodation
i brought a copy of the Machinist with me on DVD...
she must have spiked my drink because then the horror
of cocoon *** ensued and that's when
she climbed on top of me and gave me the sawdust
sandpaper **** treatment in the dark...

it kind of follows through to the casual mode of
argumentation people have concerning the schizoid condition:
it's all in your mind...
right... so the schizoid condition is simply: so...
your i-think detaches itself from thought
and forms a i-hallucinate complex as if: spring follows winters?
well then... it's all in your mind...
**** is probably in most of women's minds...
it doesn't actually exist in reality:
in the physiology... **** is a mental construct...
it must be... since i don't recall any ******
talking about: oh ****... i had to pull out...
her **** turned into a mantis or the mouth
of a worm from the planet Dune... i just couldn't
continue!

the next day she drove me to the station and i never saw
her again...
ergo? i have a strange relationship with a limp ****...
it's not impotence: per se,
it's more a judge of character concerning a ******
partner: however brief, however informal...
it's like a wild animal freezing still...
     deer in the headlights...
                                      i should have known better
with Ilona... but she pressured to the point where it
finally started "working": i wish "he" didn't...
it would have saved me so much pointless drama...
if i were a man with a child i would tell him just as much:
it's not working for a reason...
that ***** is a mantis... you're not a robot...
this isn't a *****... you're not an extension of a *****...
it's not working for a reason...
go and check... watch the most realistic "*******":
switch to amateur stuff...
                                that's all you're going to get...
and can you, get it up? well then...
it's not you...
                                     once all the glamour is gone
and you're left with a butcher's cut of antics...
                              well... if you're aroused by that sort of stuff
in private... why can't the partner reciprocate?
maybe that's just me finalising some logistics for
tomorrow...
shift at the Ice Rink tomorrow...
me... two girls...
   one butch lesbian... she keeps rubbing off on my arms
every time the home side scores
and she's celebrating...
      one rub by chance i can understand... two rubs
and i'm thinking: this isn't homosexual conversion therapy,
is it?
the other? got me the job to begin with...
started taking dieting pills because she feels depressed
because she thinks she's fat and this is what
working with women looks like if you're not
in the business of being a plumber: in the realm of
customer service...
    
                 that's how this new girl i fancied at work
got fired... about 4 other girls ganged up on her
and she was literally bullied out of work because...
            
it's coming up to 1am... i need to get up early tomorrow...
do a cycling shift...
trim my mustache, my beard, my ***** region, my arm-pits...
finish one more bottle of cider for good luck:
or no luck...
           listen to some more pagan music...
think about Bower Wood and how i wish that if i weren't
working tomorrow
i'd buy myself a bottle of whiskey and walk
into it, right now... to howl and wake up the crows.

p.s. oh, right, that dream i had last night when
i didn't scribble any words for anyone else to see?
two night ago i was swimming with
pseudo-jelly fish on the edge of the universe
transmitting vibrations of light...
last night i was watching while some colts
were gleefully celebrating their ability to drink
shots of absinthe... until i walked up to the bar
and showed them how to drink absinthe
properly...
i took out a spoon, dipped the spoon in some
sugar... poured some absinthe onto the spoon...
lit the spoon and the sugar alight...
watched the caramel form...
then poured some water into the glass
to clue them in into the secret of drinking absinthe:
you don't drink absinthe like *****...
you need for the green-milk of wormwood
to emerge!
    sie müssen für die grünmilsch von wermut
zu auftauchen!

it just so happened to be one of those
afternoons...
   making lunch for a sick woman...
slices of brioche dipped in beaten egg
(pinch of salt, pinch of pepper
and a pinch of cinnamon)...
               then fried in butter...
she requested one slice and with jam,
i made two, but couldn't find
any jam... so out came a dollop of
crème fraîche and runny honey to finish
the lunch off...
  then: i can't remember the last
time i watched a movie from beginning to end...
i'm starting to think that
the only movies i'll be able to watch
are european, foreign language movies...
then again, prior to watching
            the swedish movie that gripped
me, i got to watching
                  X500...
       what's with me starting to mature into
subtitled movies?
   maybe a steady diet of music and books...
but then this swedish movie came along
i had saved from two weeks prior...
         foreign cinema is like ***:
      you have to be in the moon,
a mutually reciprocated mood between
you and the movie...
      it can't be like ******* american cinema,
even if woody allen makes a movie...
to "smart-***" for me, plus the high levels
of saturation, aren't exactly helping:
a film industry that writes predictable
   storylines where the person can gain
   a "prophetic" insight and see the future twists
in the plot? nausea: one word answer.
so... this swedish -
  efterskalv - i.e. the here after...
  wow...
             so little dialogue...
       but still so poignant -
                     perfect reading material -
now i'm getting the feel for these sub-titled film,
then again, it's swedish cinema,
  probably the best in the world -
    there's a still about them,
  sometimes the camera peers into the canvas
like a shy child...
                very edward hopperesque -
i.e. trying to capture a stillness,
  like eddie tried capturing light (esp. in rooms)...
first date i was ever on?
   well... it was the 2004 tate modern exhibition
of eddie's works... i'm pretty sure nighthawks
was there... unlike the edvard munch exhibiton
i went to solo: hey! where's the scream?!
oh yeah... d'uh some saudi arabian sheikh
         owns it, all i get it a ******* postcard;
back to swedish cinema -
       actually, all the best films i ever managed
to see were swedish,
          like i said, modern swedish is very
hopperesque... but also among the stillness come
grand outbursts of energy -
    the very essential human presence -
the kind that shatters the presence of a roaring
lion with man's potential: shooting a rifle;
everything about efterskalv was so brutally
simplistic - i have to admit,
   american cinema is saturated with
strobe-light juxtapositions i'm sometimes starting
to think i'll enter an epileptic fit
with some many darting camera angels -
                 the a.d.h.d. in cinema...
plus... i'm getting bored with this special effects
competitiveness...
     oh yeah... another thing -
irony of saying: stripping down to the basics
of cinema... well in this film you get to see
the full adam...
                           i like that...
                          in america there's plenty of
the pure eve, but at least in swedish cinema
you can easily see not only a full eve,
             but also a full adam -
the one americans don't see without
                             sherlock limpy looking for
viagara;
  and after i finished that movie,
i started making cottage pie,
    served with mint-and-lemon infused mushy
peas, and a simple salad (rocket and some
other greens) having drizzled it with
balcamic vinegar and chilli infused olive oil.
a day well spent, i guess.

Eyes are lifeless, limpy sack
Shells are barren, print-less tracks
How uninteresting you are to me
You stand there, departed
Like the bark of a tree.

You’re lacking in that something good
No rough patches on your silken wood
You touch me, dull, and frozen stiff
It’s not my intention to be insensitive.


But you leave no lasting impression
With your expressionless expression
And I laugh and cajole
Try to set fire to your soul
And yet not even a hint of aggression.

I try my hand at CPR
It doesn’t get me very far
You’re silent and empty
It kills me, you don’t care
It shouldn’t have to be this hard.

911 help me I’m clueless
How can one be so useless?
I fear that this pain will surely remain
And make this sad song become tuneless.


I’m fighting in vain
Buckling under the strain
Denial now my enemy
You’re just a dead brain.

And I scrap, battle, blow
But unlike the tree,
You have no capacity to grow
I really am afraid
You’re a dead brain.

And it dawns on me
You have no place in my journey
And you don’t even see
You’re the dead brain on the gurney.

Inferiors carping
hoping dribbles inflamed
guards wait as I relax
watchers walk and wait in the cold
all on points I waste them
empty nonsense
maggots trying to derange
twenty years and more
ineffective at their costs
all I have to do
is whip out my nine
simpletons go mad
floppy limpy twigs
complex get 'em
Say no more!

those stripper, rarely get a *******, do they, ladies? hardly fun, ******* on mr. limpy... you must admit, male genitals are a case of a peep-show... one person for one person served... never a multiplied act of sharing the phenomenon / miracle... shame, i know... what a disney movie it would have precipitated into!*

what do you usually call a male striptease?
a beached whale...
otherwise known in
Manhattan as a: limp ****,
   in the Hamptons an attempt
at a pale ale;
       or what we call the northern quasi:
a h'american squeeze minus
the smooth;
a ***** flush, on ***** graveyard...
         take your pick,
none of this slang will ever be picked up
with the glacier of youthful ambition...
targeting the titanic.

even i was surprised, Ed Sheeran wrote the song love yourself for Justin Bieber? seriously, when i was working security at one of his gigs at Wembley he mentioned it... Eddie?! you wrote this song? sorry... but Justin does a better "cover"... it's the sax you know... and the sing-along tad-tad-alla(h)... tad-alla(h)... that's the first surprise... the second surprise caught me off guard... completely... there's this custom in England where... once upon a time... passengers of a bus would exit the bus thanking the driver... old people of England still do it... i'm much younger... old people don't travel on the last buses or the night buses... i don't thank drivers of buses during the daytime... but come travelling on the last buses and the night buses... dude! you're working the graveyard shift... before i step off onto the bus-stop i bellow out a THANK YOU... i usually head no reply... why? most bus drivers get abused by pointless passengers... people who take things for granted... but today? as i was getting off at the North St. bus stop from the no. 86 bus... i hollered... THANK YOU... echo... no echo? what?! did i just hear that? the bus driver hollered back: YOU'RE WELCOME! what the **** just happened?! i interacted with a human being? seriously?! i'd love to do that more often...

the day ended with my ******* in an alley
thinking about sweet-little-nothings:
perhaps it was a thought about wild...
        woodland strawberries... i must have been thinking
about a something that's literally a nothing...
maybe i was clarifying the adoration of *******
of a man when he ****** in a darkened alley...

the day began with: the iron is ******! father changed
the fuse but that didn't help!
my mother was visited by a friend of hers'
who... would still prefer eat a moulding cake
filled with plums: the edges... than eat nothing...
over a coffee and conversation...
she's rather have that...
i was "neurotic": complaining: but how can i go
to work not having ironed my shirt?!
sure! but this is the last shirt from Mark & Spencer's
that looks acceptable when un-ironed!
sure... the creases don't look that bad...
but come on! order a new iron:
            i have ironed trousers and i have polished
shoes... but an un-ironed shirt? unbecoming...

women are hardly pre-packaged goods...

well.. i left the house leaving droplets of something
akin to the lyrics of Three Kingfisher's...
personally? i prefer the cover by Monster Magnet
than the original of Donovan's...
phone addiction... i told my mother's friend:
you know who has the biggest problem?
Muslims and copper-necks...
they are addicted to these things...
i don't know WHY or HOW...
but these younglings are always on their phones...
take any white boy or any... and there's no problem...
no... it's the truth...
these people are following suit toward
the crumbling of: or the reinterpretation of Christianity
via the Nag Hammadi library...

i left for work early... i needed to buy new sunglasses...
at the Romford H & M they were out of stock...
bull... ****...
what?! summer's over all of a sudden?!
the sun is dimming?!
mind you... it's true... that constellation once
enlarged upon the sky is... currently... very ******* away:
that massive wheelbarrow...
the earth has tilted... it's in a microscopic "agenda"
(misnomer, i have no other word,
"agenda" doesn't break up the flow
of the narrative)...

at work everyone seemed happy... there was
a feeling of a "conspiracy of friendship"...
i like... "conspiracies of friendship"...
the shift went along just like smoothing a nugget
of butter on a warm toast...
by the time i came come pretending to be tired
my male Maine **** was well qualified
in keeping watch in complete darkness my usual
crow-spot of a windowsill... perched like i'm usually...
with one leg folded: sitting on it...
the moment i walked in and put on the light
he jumped off his Cerberus' quest and hovered
with agile limbs of missing limps into my bed...
hello... lover...

i showcased him today... my "supervisor" was
asking for direction... father's birthday...
Triumph over Harley Davidson?
each and every day... Triumph conquers the pomp
and circumstance of any Harley!
my mother and grandmother refrained me from
picking up a motorcycle! thank you ladies!
i picked up a bicycle... i told her:
i like generating my own momentum...
they said: i don't want a "donor" in the family...
but i agreed in a "somewhat, somewhat":
i like generating my own momentum...
you're in complete control...

two totems of foxes figuring out an outer suburbia
while i was smoking a Dunhill cigarette...
i'm still listening too pretty songs...
i'll relax when i'lll start listening to all the ugly
masculine songs...

the shift passed great... i tried to slip for a quick
cigarette after half time finished...
i was caught on CCTV with the message that ran
along the wording: hey! we see you!
half-time finished... PLEASE - ******* back to your
intended placing - PLEASE: obviously not literally
thus worded...

two more shifts...
a brothel is unlike a night club... there's no difference
between a Thursday's night or a Friday's night...
i needed to relax...
obviously i finished my shift... i needed an excuse...
i will not be paying a fair's worth from zone through to zone 6,
i'll pay the fair from zone 3 to 4... then i'll get a bus
through to zone 6... but i'll need to stop off
at the brothel... drink my per usual aphrodisiac
of a certain cider... and some whiskey...
**** a girl and... DREAM A BIG NOTHING...
SOMNIUM NIHIL-MAGNUS!
i.e.: nothing: big... dream up...

i circled the brothel like i usually do... some *******
sewer rat blocked my first entry...
i later heard him hardly ******* and more talking
in the adjacent room... i heard no moans...
some prostitutes are there to speak... some are
there fore "oar-men": for *******...
i use shadows for company...

hmm...

this is how i finally figured out the dynamic of
a brothel... second time getting *****-******...
hmm...

i'm the soul of Tyrion Lannister in a body
of a Jamie.... Lannister... i hate the game of thrones:
but no, ******* DWARF is going to eclipse reality...
i figured out the brothel after...
after i wasted so much money on...
on... what was wasted in an hour that could be done
in 30 minutes...
30 minutes? that means? i'll **** all the ******
in the brothel! i won't have a favourite!
**** me! i'll **** all of them!
one by one i'll **** them all!

pretty music is missing as i'm writing this...
the forest at night, foxes, the graveyard at night...
moon! moooon! ah-woooooo!
i will not bark...
my god... of the three...
i had before me...
the originals: Melete, Aoede, and Mneme:
the original Boeotian muses
and Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe,
Melpomene, Polyhymnia,
Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania...
no no... St. Francis' muses...
i want to **** them...

                 like today... i was doing my glory marches
rubbing my crotch to get an imitation *******...
drinking my whiskey by a shallow glug...
filling my bowels with enough aphrodisiac cider...
i entered the "abode" having "the" before me... how did i chose?
carelessly...
the one with the least language skills...
she knew how to un-sheath my **** but when i told her
to get some oil to ***-**** me she asked for extra money...
i didn't ask for a blow-job without a ******...
my skin is dry after washing myself... your skin is dry...

she eventually caught on... *******... what a lovely pair of
****...
peaches and pears...
hmm! that's funny! that's really funny!
what's that metaphor Moses inquired with?
you ever feel like...
Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-erpent...
you ever feel like? ever? you ever feel like
being the gardener of Eden?!
how, you might ask?
hmm...  ever touch a woman's breast as it's hanging
over your torso... teasing the head of your ****...
ever touch a woman's breast... and reimagine
it being a dangling apple, on a tree?
when you touch it? i felt a sense of reconciliation
today...
i was plucking an apple from an apple tree
by touching up a woman's breast dangling over me while
she was giving me the pleasures of *******!
you know what it feels like? this metaphor?
of reimagining a woman's breast as an apple?
while it's dangling over your torso...
while she's performing ******* onto you...
she's digging her bruised **** and stubble of its worth
against your leg...

my god! the Eden project...
first the *******... then the cow-girl...
she got bored of that... she told me to change position...
she talked too much... i changed position... obviously...
but i told her in "sign-language":
you talk too much... talking during *******
is a massive turn-off... yap yap yap...
i burned my eyes into her eyes...
she couldn't take it... she wanted me to *******...
i couldn't... she told me to stop...
i stop... LIMP ******* ****...
hey! yoiu told me to stop!
no i didn't!
yes you did!
i pointed at her!
she was about to slander me for getting a limp ****!
well... yeah! you talk during *** you get a limpy!
i don't bring "god" into this practice!
only onomatopoeias! who, the, ****, in, their,
right, state, of, mind... talks, during, ***?!
during *** there are only vowels and consonants...
summon god upon this sacred altar of continuum?!
you have to be kidding me...
eyes speak: eyes eat eyes!
woman: have you learned nothing?!
you clearly have learned nothing of what i said!
i touch your breast i pluck an apple from the apple
tree that's your body!
look at you, for all this time you have kept your secrets:
interested men, internalised them...
conquered them! now?! what have you done you
silly cow! you have turned them off!
you silly little *****!
i have to sink to the lowest depths of your, self,
to find my sort of sexually-charged-medicinal-relief!
i need more! i'm a glutton at heart...
i need more ****** partners... i need to **** all
these prostitutes in this brothel!
i need them to fall in love with me...

that's why she stopped me!
******* at first... then her on top... then she asked
me to change position with me arching over her
missionary... what?! there's a problem?
what?! i'm supposed to ******* so easily?!
you ******* Moxart and the magic ****?!
i'm playing the flute! flute! the flute flew!
over seven mountains and the seven seas!

she started projection some ******* onto me
when she asked asked for my name: MATH-EW...
Matthew...
she retored with: MAFIA?!
what? no... MAF-YEW...
MAFIA... well **** me... she liked the fetish of
me being part of a MAFIA... yeah,...
i'm one of Milton's imaginations...

she stopped the *******... i had a stern face
upon a mask i wasn't willing to take off...
she implored me to ******* into her...
mid-pumping i gave up on her imploring
me to do so...
           some women... just... simply...
talk too much during ***...

****'s sake... just thinking about her gives me
the drunken hiccups... i hate drunken hiccups...

i love ******* ******...
i touch one of their ******* i'm plucking an apple
from an the forbidden tree of Eden...
oh! hello sunshine! Moses!
you think i never wandered these parts
with no one except my shadow for company?!
i don't pay ****** for a COMPANY OF LIES...

mendacium coetus

the lying company? easily reversed...
she ignored me...
i was supposed to be finished by growing limp
in the *******...
like **** i was...
i figured out the brothel long before she was
first squealing her first surprise...
of a fake ******...

you what?!
i love working with people that do not understand
or appreciate my shadow-side,
everyone, is, so, neuro-, -typical...
such, boring, creatures...
i need *** like i need air...
the more of it i get: the more tame i become...
why? few "things" interest me...
and the ones that interest me are **** related:
but not children rearing related:
i discover my true self on the basis of
the Libra: do i love to **** more than i like to drink?!
maybe the macabre me says: i like both... equally...

how did we end up?
i had a semi-limp **** in hand... she was all like: ah...
i ******* told her! your skin is dry! i want a *****-****!
what?! extra oil?! i just told you... spear-head me with
extra oil! rub your glorious **** in the oil
let me phallus tease your *******!

after i couldn't finish with her in her ****
she finally decided to do me off happy with a hand-job
and some well oiled *****-*******...
obvious i was relieved...
at least she knew the reasons for having ******* and pulling it
back...i have to admit...
between a ******* and doing **** *******:
i'm not gay... **** is ******* lost on me...
*****-******* is the best...
esp. when lubricated...

   it's the sort of imitation of being an infant
once more... the re-ascending taste of a woman's ******...
do men have these thoughts? i.e. i was an infant once...
i'm an infant again: but as a grown man
and not an infant... i love suckling on those *****...
she said i ****** too hard... i softened my suckling...

women as such sexually doubly-standard(ed)
creatures... they are mothers
but at the same time they are ******...
i love it! more! more! more!
when once they feed the babe... prior to there's
all that *** *******!
for "irritation's sake" of arousal!

i could never do **** *** with a woman...
these women have crossed a threshold for me...
i like ******* too much...
i mean... **** me... the way ******* sometimes feels like?
it feels like... sitting on a very comfortable leather
arm-chair... esp. if you're oozing out a ****
and farting at the same time!

me? i'm going to **** the rest of these prostitutes
in the brothel...
i'm on a rampage... i don't care..
and the people at work will just grimace and say:
i want to work with Matthew...
and they will... because i can be one person during
the day... and another person during the night...

apporto cadavera in mensa
bring corpses to the table!

i'll **** them all! dead or living!
i'll morph the ****-erotica of the serpent
of the phallus...
with the apple-***... as i would:
massage it through from summer through to
autumn... like a babe... suckle at its *******
and imitation-****..., right in between
the "crease"... of... clean... dried skin...
juice of flush of FLESH...

i love hand-jobs oiled up... with her **** imitating
****...
but there's also that bus-driver...
i love bus-drivers... i wanted to be a bus-driver once...
to become a Leibniz... a man of high intellect
but of subversive ambition...
i always abhorred ladder-climbing: socially...
symbolically....
preferred rock climbing...
simultaneously: what Leibniz conjured up with
Newton... the infinitesimal calculus?
of the two? Leibniz lived a better life of the two...
paddles... tattles... squids and frogs...
Newton had his Volatire and apple...
me? i have my... *******'s breast and pluck!
what's the supposed serpent you say?
my apple is pretty ripe... it's full *****... i just plucked it!

this apple, is mine...
pomum hic est mea!
i plucked this apple from the tree:
and fed it back to the woman unwilling to feed it back
to the thirsty man!
i don't care much for the woman feeding
or the thirsty man!
the night is "thirsty" for the light.

what the hell is happening... i've just put in a 12 hour shift...
well...
getting picked up at 9:45am at a Covid vaccination
centre... woke up at 7:30am... drank a coffee smoked two
cigarettes... brought in Saturday's newspaper...
****** off proper at around 9am for the meeting...
managed to get another coffee and a sausage egg muffin
from McDonald's, smoked another cigarette...
slightly hangover, but most certainly pampered myself
with some stuff... after having taken a shower...
bubble-gum on the ready after having brushed my teeth
like a dentist:
- garnier body intesive care cream on my face,
   hands, the nether-regions, feet...
- diesel, fuel for life, two hits of the spray
   on the area below my beard and smeared across my collar
   bone,
- avon skin so soft, airbrush spray on the face,
- nzuri argan oil on hair & beard...
- then some style expertise wax 04
(flexible hold) so your hair still looks naturally held
together.... you can actually put your hand through it
and you will not get any residue...
- MORFORE OSSION beard care balsam...
   turkish... all the best products for beard are
turkish... like the barbers: the best barbers are...
turkish!
- some deodorant under the armpits,
the ***-crack... the groin region and all over the torso...
shirt-ironed, trousers ironed, clip-on tie firm set...
shoes polished... thermal socks donned...
off to Oxford for Oxford United vs. Wigan Athletic...
first job... enter the turnstile cage... lock myself in...
the ticket reader wasn't working...
got a tally clicker...
supervisor came back with a working ticket reader...
but i still used the tally clicker...
managed to allow passage of 218 people into
the stadium... the children looked amazingly...
sincere with regards to authority of sorts...
caged man... some boy asked... why is that man
in that cage? has he been naughty?
so i endeared him... yeah... i've been a very naughty man...
i still find it weird when women tell their children:
give your ticket to the MAN...
mind what... the MAN is telling you to do...
in my 20s i never reached that level... i was still a boy then...
everything went smoothly...
the tickets i scanned went through...
the tickets the scanner wouldn't scan i just brush aside
with the clicker... most were season ticket holders...
10 minutes into the match, one or two late-comers
and then we shut the turnstile gates...
next? pitch-side duty... this time i got a seat...
watched the crowd... my god... the football crowd in
London... tame *******...
go anywhere outside of London and you're getting
fanatics! the Wigan Athletic crowd...
i mean: men in their 40s / 50s... on the face of it...
yet deep down... teenagers...
drunk, mad, chanting... by the end of the match
losing their voices...
one father was more of a kid than the kid he was
with: was... spotted this one guy smoking,
another jumped the barrier...
for once i didn't actually watch the match...
i had an eye on this one... classical English beauty...
i'm guessing a single mum who came with two of
her children, her father and mother...
the mother didn't look that bad either...
sometimes you can isolate a woman's face in a crowd
and... a war might be happening...
you sort of become oblivious to everything beside
the serenity such a face imbues and translates onto
you something... Sophia-esque... Athena...
she might not be... but... appearances are appearances...
12 hours from since i left the house to when
i returned... i tried to eat something...
first that chicken burger on my way home...
3 chips... i couldn't eat more...
my stomach had shrunk to the point that i might as well
have done a day of Ramadam...
bought some whiskey and pepsi on the way...
hanged it on the fence at the back of my garden:
i am only drinking... because i smuggle the alcohol in...
then tried to eat some rice & a chickpea / spinach curry
i made a day prior...
couldn't lodge that into my shrunk stomach...
i decided to get some calories
by drinking a glass of milk infused with
some Nesquik straberry powder...
worked a miracle...
then one cider & now some whiskey & pepsi...
i was falling asleep watching some
Masterchef professionals...
sorry... nothing can compare the Australian
amateurs...
they're such a new culture: and i look at them,
as a people: drawn into civilization building
from the ground-up, beginning with a cuisine
that's unique to them...
all the old European cuisines seem rather stale
by comparison...
i jolted myself: tired, restless...
******* i lay in my underwear on the floor
of my bedroom having placed my feet on
the radiator...
i don't care what anyone says...
you always feel cold from the feet up...
if your feet are cold... the rest of your body feels
cold... warmed my feet... still restless...
tired... really tired... but that's the problem with
my tiredness... i also somehow to feel... *****...
i had to do two no. 3s in a row...
tame *******... recently... what's her name...
that singer of BAD GUY was celebrated
by journalists for coming out against
******* apologists...
i'm sorry... what sort of ******* are, "you" watching?
the freakiest i ever allowed myself to become
was watching a ******* gloryhole compilation
of women jerking off a ***** that started shooting
custard... probably while listening to E Nomine's
song angst...
i'm tired but also too *****... i need to calm down
a little...
and perhaps the Hebrews have a fair point about
this "taboo"... of the solipsist Onan...
the Arabic religion isn't so strict... after all...
their mother was a concubine of Abraham...
   it's not like i 'm doing it in a ******* armchair,
with scented candles, with a ******...
or have a webcam active recording myself for a larger
public... or that i might have a ******* toy...
just this boney-**** of a hand...
yeah... it really does feel small...
that's perhaps why i have allowed myself to see
the female hand as the most ****** part of a woman's
body... i look at women's hands and think...
i'd need to sacrifice my pinky + knuckle...
if i can hold a basketball with one hand...
i don't think my phallus is small...
my hands are just big...
never in a million years would i want to watch
"sacrificial *******": the Italian classics...
sure... something classy... edgy...
not this ****** modern crap...
show me something that invokes latex... thrill!
thrill-e-he!
last time i heard women were into gang-bangs,
choking... ****...
come to think of it... paycheck is coming up...
i "wonder": how will i spend, that money?
new trousers, gamble with going on a date?
sure... a "date" in a brothel... where, EVERY-THING
is, transparent...
no one is there for milk & cookies...
i like to keep things transparent like that...
one hour of ******* and perhaps talking in between...
what's the Romanian word / Turkish word for eyes?
nose? lips? freckles?
**** a little, take a break, smoke a cigarette...
blah blah...
of course the Hebrews would think that *******
is a taboo on the male part, historically:
religiously... well i have a taboo for the Hebrews too:
circumcision...
  the act wouldn't really be a taboo is the Hebrews didn't
begin cutting off "excess" skin of the fore-,
if i keep a high hygienic standard: prior and after the act...
sometimes... it just eases taking a ****...
relaxes the **** muscles a little...
but i have no qualms, when it's done hygienically...
after all... "sword" & "sheath"...
for my boney elephant **** of a hand... skin on...
for actual *******... skin off...
it's not exactly rocket science...
but imagine the scenario when... i would be circumcised...
i'd be mad...
looking for that fleshy pouch of a woman's ******...
because my own protective layer would be
"missing"... sometimes i'm tired after a shift
in the cold & i still want to...
but my "would be" partner wouldn't be in the mood...
what then?
i'm tired, i'm *****... but she's not in the mood...
what do i do? think about, *******: carp fishing?!
no... since i have the "excess" i do two in a row over
really tame, wholesome *** and i'm ready to doodle
these words, drink... i concentrate my energy
on the mind having absolutely gotten rid of any remaining
****** impulses... the end...
oh... but that weak-spot of mine...
Asian models, notably the Japanese models...
there's a whole genre... GRAVURE...
*** is always insinuated... it's never explicit...
a photography of a girl showing her underwear...
the Eden of those inner-thighs...
the world is standing on its head:
with women thinking that men enjoy shaming ***,
violent ***... sorry, honey... those are
exclusively the pornographers: men who have
too much ***... most men don't get enough enough...
men might... have a fetish for...
say... a step-mother ******* her step-son...
obviously women will subsequently insinuate
their fantasy of: ******... ******!
ha! they should Marquis de Sade's masterpiece
of a novella... the one in which he's concise, genius...
hardly making waffles of speech...
i wish i was ****** more... but what's a boy to do
if not getting as much as his libido would allow
him to... men express... women explore...
i'd rather ******* to some Bronzino...
i'm thinking... a borderline taboo... she's 16... 18...
it's a momentary idea...
a momentary bulge... soon i digress toward thinking
about... fuller-forms... women in their 30s... 40s... 50s...
i think about... a well aired bottle of red wine...
fully-formed... none of this lazily available fetish
for matchstick, pseudo-anorexic:
under-developed... dolls...
i like to think of a woman like i might think
about sitting in a very comfortable leather arm-chair...
or... reading a very old... 19th century
hardback, leather-bound book...
the type of woman that might kiss her children
goodnight... but an hour later... do the complete opposite
with her lips...
it's a nice thought...
while men starve & women explore...
it's good to starve... somehow... so many less consequences...
but as long as you're hygienic about it...
all the better for the GRAVURE medium
from Japan... finally! *** can be insinuated...
it doesn't require for you to be "excited" over something:
so explicit that you get a LIMPY for simply not
being involved... *** as something "forbidden"...
since not readily available...
no longer the sort of *** of the western canon that
invokes... *** isn't to be "forbidden":
it ought to be shamed & "shamed"...
that's how schizophrenics are bred...
via a double-negation...
   via mis-wiring of messages, *** constructed from
a contradiction....
oh the English are the best at this...
they enjoy it so much that they have to lie about
enjoy it... they sort of flagellate themselves over
the whole affair... in the open they are:
such prim labourers of puritanism...
yet, give them the right sort of opportunity to
express their sexuality in private...
talkies... the ******* is rife with...
"too much talk during ***, too much: **** me daddy,
**** me mummy... oh yeah, you want it rough..."
the list is seemingly endless...
in the beginning there was the word,
and the word was (with) god...
yeah... so talking during *** is such a good idea?
i can boast about herr stumm...
i can boast about... an "alphabet" of onomatopoeias...
something akin to eating laughter with
sighs and oh: really?
talk ruins ***... a body ought to speak to body...
the tongue is reserved for something more
than being more than a vehicle for syllables...
words are best kept outside the medium of ***...
eyes ought to eat up the other's body;
mirror should most certainly be used.